


Shopping For Gender In A British Wal-Mart

by coulson_is_an_avenger



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ADHD Jonathan Sims, Canon Asexual Character, Gen, Gender Identity, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Sasha James, my tags got messed up but hopefully they're good now, or agender- he's still not sure what labels he wants yet, set during season 1, that's not particularly relevant but he never stops being ace so, this is just a look into gender and a love letter to trans solidarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25681162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coulson_is_an_avenger/pseuds/coulson_is_an_avenger
Summary: Jon looks over the skirt before him once again, taking in the details. It’s a beautiful design; long and pleated and a striking deep grey, with just enough of an undertone of purple to catch the eye. It's perfect.It's is exactly what he’s pictured all the times he’s allowed himself to daydream of what it might look like to… expand his style. All the little fantasies of floral dresses, of button downs and flowing skirts, of pastel pink and slacks, of somethingelse, something to make him feel more like apersonthan a man. All the things he was not-so-gently urged away from growing up, the things that made up jokes on television, the things he wanted in a way that foreign voices told him was wrong.This feels right. This feels like him.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 77
Kudos: 448
Collections: tma fics





	Shopping For Gender In A British Wal-Mart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is half me going through some gender shit and shamelessly trying to figure it out via Jon, and half an open love letter to Sasha James. Queen, I miss you every day.
> 
> Special thanks to Yellow for answering my burning questions about British supermarkets, and Dani for proof reading, I owe y'all my life ;-;
> 
> Slight disclaimer: although I'm pretty sure I fall somewhere on the nonbinary spectrum, that by no means makes me an expert on the trans experience. So that being said, if you have any comments/suggestions about my portrayals in this fic, let me know!
> 
> Update: The absolutely lovely [pocketsizedquasar](https://pocketsizedquasar.tumblr.com/) drew [some absolutely STUNNING art](https://pocketsizedquasar.tumblr.com/post/643692547481468928/i-read-a-really-cute-fic-called-shopping-for) for this fic that I'm absolutely losing my whole mind over. Seriously, this is gorgeous, please check out their art ;-;.

There is a skirt in an aisle of Sainsbury’s, just across from the men’s clothing section and near the socks, and Jon can’t stop looking at it.

He didn’t come to the store for clothes, not really. He just needs a few extra groceries to keep himself fed for the weekend, but he usually ends up wandering a bit when he has time to browse, and, somehow or another, he has ended up here, and now very little matters besides the article of clothing before him and his own heartbeat. He’s been frozen in place for the better portion of a quarter of an hour now, hands fidgeting with his other groceries, eyes running over the clothing repeatedly, mind going a mile a minute.

He feels stuck to the floor; hesitancy and an ocean of emotion turning to glue beneath his soles and keeping him tightly in place. A part of him tells himself to walk away like he has a hundred times before in other shops, but another part of him is fighting to make its voice heard over the hesitation that’s become so familiar, it feels like a reflex.

_What's holding you back?_ It asks. Again and again and again.

His history of fashion comes to mind, as he scours for excuses or explanations. Jon had made some deeply questionable fashion choices back in uni; he remembers; obnoxious things of black leather and skinny pants and mesh and eyeliner that would have given his grandmother a heart attack had she been living, but… that had been more about genre and release and the allure he found in exploring a new aesthetic.

This is different somehow. This is something else pulling at him, something deeper than a trend. A part of himself he hadn’t been ready to acknowledge yet, even in those days, surrounded by almost certain acceptance.

This is _personal_ , he realizes, in a way his fashion choices nowadays are not. He’s so focused on professionalism these days, of setting himself to the highest standard to keep others from looking at his failures, at his incompetence, and that mindset bleeds into the things he wears. This isn’t unprofessional, not really, but it’s self indulgently _honest_ , in a way he rarely is, in a way he can rarely afford to be.

He can’t afford to be honest with the world most of the time, and right now, honesty would mean admitting the fact that he has taken over a dead woman’s job without the slightest idea of how to continue in her footsteps. He barely even knows what she _did_ , so he’s taken to sprinting blind, hoping his dedication and perfectionism cover up the fact that he’s beyond terrified.

So no, he can’t afford to be honest in that respect. But this… this is a different kind of honesty. This is a kind of honesty that doesn’t have anything to do with being an archivist, with being a boss, with being a coworker. This just has to do with being _Jon_. And that’s something he thinks he might be able to do.

It’s startling, almost, how badly he finds himself wanting it now that he’s this close. There's a near physical ache in his chest at the thought of leaving the simple skirt behind, and he realizes in a moment that he's both absolutely not ready, and the closest thing he’ll ever be to it.

_I can choose this,_ he decides, a rebellious, hopeful thing close to his chest like a hand over his heart. _I can choose this._

He takes a step forward - a small distance, and yet made immensely large by his own mind - and reaches out a hand to brush over the fabric.

He doesn’t know what kind of fabric it is, only that it’s soft and inviting to the touch, and would probably feel very nice to wear. It’s a beautiful design, as well; long and pleated and a striking deep grey, with just enough of an undertone of purple to catch the eye. The waist is a simple elastic; one that's not too tough as to be rigid, but enough to hold a decent shape. No gaudy ribbons or bows, not silky or translucent. It’s simple and pretty and it’s _perfect_.

It’s exactly what he’s pictured all the times he’s allowed himself to daydream of what it might look like to… expand his style. All the little fantasies of floral dresses, of button downs and flowing skirts, of pastel pink and slacks, of something _else_ , something to make him feel more like a _person_ than a man. All the things he was not-so-gently urged away from growing up, the things that made up jokes on television, the things he wanted in a way that foreign voices told him was wrong.

This feels… right. This feels like _him_.

It seems easy, how soft it is in his hand, how simple it would be to simply pick it up and carry it away. But it also feels tremendously momentous.

He starts looking for excuses to fill up the slowly building ball of nerves that's settling in his stomach. What if it’s the wrong size and he has to return it? What if another customer or an employee asks him what he thinks he’s doing? What if he’s wrong, and it looks terrible on him, and his momentary inspiration flits away like a leaf in the breeze? What if years of thinking and wanting all vanish as soon as he attends to them?

But, he thinks, grabbing ahold of his fear with unsteady hands before it can overtake him completely, what if they don't? What if he’s _right?_ This could be the start of something new, he thinks, something he’s hoped for for years, something that looks a little like becoming himself, fitting a little better in the mirror. He rocks back and forth on his heels, biting his lip, the last vestiges of fear gripping him tight, and keeping him hesitant.

Mercifully, there is no one nearby to question him, or give him funny looks, but he can still feel his confidence wavering as time stretches out; his courage balanced, as if on a string, waiting to tip either way. It’s now or never, isn’t it?

_I can choose this,_ he thinks again, more purposeful this time, and he gathers up all the breath he can fit into his lungs as if it’ll make him braver, and he tugs the hanger off the hook and into his hands.

It’s a small motion, but the entirety of his world narrows down to the few seconds it takes up, the small point of contact between his hands and the plastic of the hanger filling up everything he knows. It sends his heart beating wildly in his ears, but - after a moment of fearful stillness - the world doesn’t end. No one comes out of the woodwork to tell him to put it back, no alarms go off, no one screams, nothing changes, nothing happens. The store is still playing crappy music, and he is standing there clutching a skirt, more hesitation than human.

He lets out the breath, careful and slow, forcing his heart rate to relax, and holds the skirt gingerly against himself to measure the size, taking note as the bottom of it reaches his ankles, turning to look at a mirror against the next shelf. He meets his own eyes in the reflection, and he looks over what he’s chosen, held cautiously out in front as if he’s still afraid to claim it. His heart begins to go even faster, and something in his chest is swelling. It looks fine. It looks good. He can choose this. He can choose this.

He gathers up the fabric in his arms, rather than putting it in his basket, and fights the urge to bolt towards the exits as adrenaline kicks in. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this thankful for self-checkout in his life, as he scans and pays for his few groceries without having to explain himself, and then he’s out the doors, and he feels like something is bursting in his chest.

It's not too long of a walk from Sainsbury’s to his flat, but Jon finds himself counting every step in anticipation, the bag heavy with purpose in his hands, his steps just slow of a jog, and his whole body thrumming with an anticipation he can scarcely begin to name. By the time he reaches his street, his previously suffocating nerves have now morphed almost entirely into something that feels a lot like excitement, and maybe like pride; gathered up from the bottom of his chest, built up on his own. A smile creeps onto his face.

He reaches his flat sooner than later, and then he’s up the stairs and through the door as soon as his legs can manage it, and there's the briefest moment of hesitation where he isn't sure if he should put away the milk or go and try the skirt on first, and then he simply tosses everything down except for the bag with the skirt, and he’s all but running to the bathroom to try it on.

It’s with trembling fingers that he undoes the belt around his waist and slips out of his trousers, folding them carefully off to the side, and takes one last deep breath to steady himself. It feels like he's holding an orphaned piece of himself in his hands, coming home. He chides himself for being dramatic, sucks in a sharp breath and pulls it on.

The fabric is nice, is the first thing he notices. It’s soft enough that it won’t itch, but not too soft as to feel overly silky against his skin. It's got a decent amount of weight to it too, and it has a bit of drag when he moves from side to side, so he can feel it as it shifts around him. It holds its shape enough that it won’t cling or get in the way, but it still flows around him as a gentle reminder of its presence. It feels elegant on him.

The second thing he notices is that it feels _right_ , in a way that's so sudden and so honest he can scarcely keep it in his chest. He swallows thickly and looks up earnestly to the reflection in the mirror at himself.

He looks a bit unkempt; his curly hair coming free of its previously meticulously slicked-back style - which is rather to be expected, given he nearly ran home all the way from the shops - and the red button-down he’s wearing doesn't match the skirt as nicely as he’d like, but still. But _still_.

He is standing here, in his home, in his skin, feeling closer to himself than he knew he could be. He's not sure what he feels closer to, what he's reaching towards, exactly, but it's closer to _him_ , he thinks. What he wants to feel. Wants to _be_.

Right. It just feels _right_.

He's glad to be off work for the night, because Jon spends the next several hours matching different shirts, jumpers, and shoes to the article of clothing, smiling like mad and wiping away occasional tears when they blur his vision. He’d usually be hesitant to cry like this, to show this much emotion while in the middle of a seemingly menial task, but tonight is about him, he's decided. No one else matters, past or present.

It's just him, fitting together the pieces of himself, and feeling closer to understanding the final picture.

It’s just him, feeling right.

* * *

However, as wonderful as the feeling he discovered that night was, it's still several months before he finally manages to work up the courage to wear the thing to work.

It's not that he’s _afraid_ of what his coworkers might think, he tells himself, it's just that… well, he learned young that being different is a very easy way to call attention to yourself. Not all of it good.

Children at school were quick to notice the things about him that stood out, and the attention was quick to sour. He had been bullied for his strange questions, his tendency to talk nonstop about what he learned from books or documentaries, and his quite dramatic breakdowns when a teacher scolded him too harshly. The crueler children eventually noticed his aversion to touch, his grandmother’s halting English, and the occasional sabich or kofta dish he brought for lunch, and after that, he practically became a breathing target.

Such things are deep in the past now, but he's still learned to be on guard, and to put a bit of a distance between himself and others, especially when it comes to personal matters. A critique on his appearance can quickly become a critique on his comprehension, if the wrong person decides they want to spin it that way, and comprehension is something he barely feels he has these days, and certainly not something he wants anyone looking too deeply into.

But again, it’s not that he’s afraid his coworkers will actually do anything like that to him. They’re adults, not school bullies. It’s just that he knows all to well how quickly a kind face can turn to a sneer when it finds a vulnerability, and he knows how easy it is for such betrayal to strike him deep, to activate a stabbing hurt in his chest that emerges blindly when he faces rejection. He _is_ still vulnerable, and he isn’t sure he’s ready to give anyone too close to him a chance to know that quite yet.

However, courage is something that can be learned, and he's been preparing. He's been wearing the skirt out when he can, collecting smiles and small compliments like folded notes in his heart, building up a little house of courage from the pieces he finds out on the London streets: A smile that’s so bright it has to be of the same pride he’s learning. A small “nice outfit” directed towards him on the tube, careful and deliberate. A wave from a stranger with a jacket covered in pins and flags, some familiar, and a couple Jon could only guess at.

Yesterday, a young adult; female presenting and with a generally unassuming demeanor, approached him in the marketplace and caught his attention with a fervor that honestly surprised him.

“I love your skirt.” They said deliberately, with a look of something so fierce and longing and quietly hopeful that Jon didn't quite know what to say, and just found himself nodding, whispering a thank you, and then turning away, eyes wide and heart positively _singing_.

He’s never been the type to go looking for community, but even the small displays of solidarity he’s seen recently make his heart catch in his lungs every time he remembers them. He’s never needed others’ approval to be himself, no, but to not be alone is something truly wondrous, he decides.

The day after that encounter, he wakes up ready to be who he wants, in all the aspects of his life. Fear be damned. He can be professional and present the way he wants to, he decides, his stubbornness settling in and filling in all the spaces where his confidence doesn’t yet reach. He gets to choose this. 

He's double checked the dress code a hundred times - Elias seems to be more lax with the Archives department, but he won’t take any risks - and, having found nothing to discourage him, finds himself stepping into the lift on Wednesday morning with his chin high and his heart quietly pounding. The outfit he’s chosen is nice; a simple combination of a white button-down shirt tucked into the grey-purple skirt, over some brown dress shoes, with a grey jacket over his shoulders. It’s quite flattering on him, if he’s being honest, but it’s still very much so up to his standards when it comes to professionalism.

He has a simple plan, he thinks to himself for probably the hundredth time this morning. Once the lift doors open, he will walk down the hall to the Archives, open the door, go through the door, and head to his office. He probably won’t even see his coworkers until break, given how early he is, and then… then he’ll figure it out. One step at a time. One literal step at a time, he urges himself, as the lift doors ding open and he sets about walking to his desk.

* * *

It turns out he was right; he doesn’t see much of his coworkers for most of the morning. He got here before anyone else, so he’s already sat down at his desk and starting to work by the time anyone else is even in the relative building. The others know for the most part to leave him alone in the mornings, and so he doesn’t even have to interact with anyone much at all, aside from exchanging brief greetings as Sasha, Tim, and finally Martin make their way into work.

The morning is quite uninteresting, actually, something he finds himself grateful for. If anyone is inevitably going to make a fuss and attempt to embarrass the hell out of him, he would rather prefer it not happen first thing in the morning. Nothing of the sort comes to pass, so Jon manages to get quite a lot done, much to his enjoyment. He’s still having to sort through the utter mess that Gertrude Robinson left him, but today he’s at least managed to digitize a couple of old - and decidedly ridiculous - statements, which marks the completed filing of the third box he’s been attacking, and, upon digging into the next box within his reach, discovers one of the strange files that stubbornly refuses to digitize. While the phenomenon still strikes him as odd, and more than a little unsettling, he’s more or less gotten into the rhythm of the system they’ve set up to handle these things so far, and pulls the tape recorder out of his desk.

He doesn’t actually sit down to record it quite yet; reading the statements can be… draining, and he’d rather get a good cup of tea in him before he sets about doing that, so he gives the recorder a little pat, and heads off to the break room to indulge himself.

Apparently, everyone else has also had similar ideas, because the moment he opens the door, all three of his assistants turn to look at him.

Jon quickly furrows his brow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No!” Martin hastily declares, sitting straight up in his chair from where he’d been leaning forward, clearly in the middle of explaining something.

“A bit.” Tim says at the exact same time, grinning as he clasps his hands behind his head.

None of them seem to have noticed anything about Jon except his general presence so far, so he simply raises an eyebrow and waits for an explanation that doesn’t come, and then sighs deeply. “Anyone care to  _ enlighten _ me on what’s got all three of my assistants away from work at once?”

“Well, we found a spider… ” Martin begins, clearly embarrassed, but he trails off and looks to the others for backup, which Sasha jumps in to provide.

“A spider made its way into the archives, and after some very thorough discussions about the nature of proper spider removal, Martin here decided it would be a great time for a lesson on ecosystems.” She takes a sip of her tea, her eyes sparkling with a glimmer of amusement. “We’re learning quite a lot about the importance of arachnids to ensure our survival as humans.”

Jon wrinkles his nose in distaste. “There’s probably quite a thing or two to be said about the  _ absence _ of arachnids being vital to ensure a decent workplace. Really, this is an archive, you ought to just kill the things and move on before they ruin-”

“Well, that’s the  _ thing _ ,” Martin interrupts, his usual nervousness diminished in the face of something he’s clearly passionate about. “They’re actually essential to almost  _ any _ environment, and so  _ killing _ -”

“Hold on,” Tim interjects, attention diverted from Martin’s antics and now entirely focused on Jon. “What are you _ wearing? _ ” His eyebrows are raised, and his voice sounds honestly pleased, and something in Jon freezes right up.

The other assistants both pause and take a moment to actually look at their head archivist since he’s entered the room, and Christ, Jon hadn’t planned this far. He reaches for his first instinct; which is to stay very still and simply answer the question as plainly as possible.

“It’s a skirt, Tim.” Jon states, in quite possibly the most boring voice he can muster.

“Finally decided to turn fashionable on us, eh?” Tim grins from ear to ear. “Looking  _ good _ . Sasha might have a run for her money.”

Despite his teasing tone, Tim is one of the most honest people Jon has ever met, and even though the comment has him flushing with its theatrics, he knows it to be deeply sincere, and something like gratitude stirs in his chest. He’s known Tim the longest, and even if he didn’t, everyone knows Tim to be the biggest advocate of bold self-expression in the room.  _ Obviously _ , if his bright nails and jumpers and dip dyed hair are anything to go by. Sasha might be the most fashionable one of his assistants, but Tim is the least afraid of boldness.

“Oh, hush.” Sasha rolls her eyes at Tim’s teasing, a gesture she's done so many times it has to be subconscious by now. “Jon, it looks great,” she says with a little thumbs up, and there’s more than a little earnestness in her voice, something akin to the compliments Jon’s been storing in his heart these last few weeks. He tucks the information away for later, and simply offers her a grateful look in return.

For his part, Martin has gone very quiet since the topic shifted, and when Jon looks over at him, he’s blushing hard enough for his ears to have turned a deep red, visible even on his dark skin. He squeaks out a small little “very nice” when he notices Jon’s gaze, and then appears to dedicate himself to vehemently refusing to meet his eyes. Jon doesn't think he’ll ever understand a thing that man does.

But he feels warm. Warm in a way he is deeply unfamiliar with. He wasn’t searching for the others’ approval but it still washes over him like a wave; enormous and hopelessly grounding. He’s struggling to keep it from showing on his face, and then he remembers his reason for coming to the break room in the first place.

“Well, thank you. If that satisfies you all, then I  _ did _ come in here to get a cup of tea-”

The others are quick to get out of his way, then, and soon enough he's back in his office and settling down to document whatever his next statement has to say.

* * *

“End recording.”

Jon clicks off the tape as he finishes reading the statement, and lets out an exhale as he gathers his thoughts. Reading statements is exhausting, even if he's still vehemently refusing to acknowledge any semblance of truth the statements might carry. Unfortunately, despite his exterior skepticism, it still takes him a moment to calm his nerves and straighten out his thoughts back from terror to their properly academic places. He can convince his mind of the statements’ falsehood with logic all day, but the heart is less easily fooled by his deflection, annoying as it might be. He’s pushing his glasses up to run a hand over his face when a small knock comes at the door.

“Come-” his voice wobbles, and he clears his throat to strengthen it. “Come in.” The door creaks open, and he slips his glasses back on to see Sasha James enter with a smile.

“Hey Jon. Just finishing up?”

“Yes.” Jon confirms. “We now have a fully blasphemous priest in our records. A real delight. I'll probably be having you and Tim look into follow up soon.” He tries to sound dismissive, even though some left over fear from the statement admittedly sticks to his throat.

“Ooh, sounds dreadful.” Sasha makes a face. “Bad luck, that is, having a dark priest in there. We’ll figure out whatever you need to know about it, though.” He makes an affirming noise in response, but says nothing more, so Sasha continues, her tone just a bit more serious. “So, do you have a moment to talk?”

Jon straightens immediately. In all honesty, Sasha is his best assistant, and a brilliant mind all around. He trusts her work and her character completely, and if there's anything she needs to speak to him about, he's absolutely willing to listen. “Of course.”

“It's not work related,” she adds quickly after seeing his reaction, earning her a small “oh” in response. “But important nonetheless. I just wanted to say that it's good to see you being yourself here.” Her words don't hesitate, even as Jon stiffens slightly. That's something Jon’s always admired about her; she doesn't doubt herself or second guess what she's doing for a moment. She speaks with confidence, and her words make that quiet pride he's keeping in his chest sing. “I know it can be stressful to really express yourself when you're so busy worrying about winning everyone's respect-”

“I'm not worried about winning everyone's respect.” Jon interjects, in the most convincing tone he can manage, but Sasha fixes him with a look that simply says  _ “I can see through you” _ , and any further protests fail him.

“Anyways, I don’t know if it’s my place to offer, or to even bring it up, but I just wanted you to know that I know what it’s like. I mean, I’m not going to assume that you're going through the same thing I did, but I remember getting my first heels. First dress.” She smiles fondly, her expression full of the certainty that comes with experience, of knowing who she is and how she got here. “First time wearing them out. It… can be quite daunting, although I’m sure I don’t need to tell you.” - Jon actually chuckles at that, which clearly encourages Sasha to continue - “And earlier you had a look in your eyes, one that I recognized. So, in case this is something you're interested in pursuing, if you decide to go looking for more, I’m going to warn you in advance; sizing can be a real nightmare. But, if you want, I’d be willing to show you the ropes. Give you some pointers and all that.”

It's an open question, an open offer. Not asking for him to disclose everything, but giving him enough footing that he can answer if he wants. It's so very kind, and her offer itself is incredibly sweet. He knows his eyes are wide, and his expression has to look somewhere between a kid gazing at Christmas lights and a deer in front of a car.

“I- It- I'm-” Jon sighs, and starts over. Emotions have never been his native language; hesitancy and avoidance will always be far more natural, but he's trying, he’s  _ trying _ . “Thank you, Sasha. Truly. I- I would be glad to take you up on that. I think I rather got lucky with this one,” he chuckles a bit and fidgets with the fabric between his fingers. “Got the size right on the first try. But if–  _ when _ I do go looking again, I doubt it'll be so simple. I'd appreciate that, yes.” Sasha smiles, a brilliant, genuine thing, and Jon feels so very vulnerable before her, but not, he realizes, in an entirely bad way.

She  _ gets _ it, he reminds himself. Sure, her experiences are different than his, that's clear enough. She's had everything figured out for some time, he soon learns. Since before uni Sasha’s known where she fits, who she is. She's known herself to be a woman for a long time, and all the years since have just been finessing the details within that identity, and exploring her comforts within it.

Jon is late. He feels clumsy, like he's stumbling out of the dark, and doesn't really belong in any of the boxes laid before him. He doesn't quite fit where his grandmother and society have told him to, but he doesn't fit in the opposite one either. It's a strange space, caught in between labels, places to belong. He doesn't quite know how best to move forward, but he's starting to think that he might be able to take pieces of each of the boxes he knows, and construct himself a new one that fits him better. He shares this, as best as he can, and Sasha nods, thinking silently for a long moment. 

“I don't know how familiar you are with the terminology around all of this, but there is a word that sort of spans that whole “other box” concept. Ever thought you might be nonbinary?” She asks it carefully, giving him space to think and to agree or deny.

Jon blinks. Frowns. Thinks. Hesitates. “I don't know. I- I know the word, yes,” he's known several nonbinary people in his lifetime, but as much as he's admired them, he's never quite fit their specific aesthetics. Sure, the term is an umbrella one, made to house a whole plethora of identities that simply don't fit within the strictly binary categories, but based on what models he has… he isn't sure it's who he is. Not yet. “Thank you, Sasha. But I don't know. I just-” he sighs, his chest suddenly tight with the weight of yet another category he isn't sure he belongs to. “I know what feels right, and I know that strictly being  _ male _ doesn't. I don't know if I belong  _ anywhere _ , honestly, but it… it might be a bit closer? I-I'll think about it.”

“Of course,” She waves a hand, unperturbed at his anxiety. “This stuff can feel really complicated at first. Don't rush to try on anything that doesn't fit. Physically and metaphorically.” She jokes, a soft smile on her lips.

“Right.” Jon breathes, wondering why suddenly it's so hard to take in air, why it's so hard to blink without it feeling wet. His whole life he's always been scouring for answers, for equations and for solutions, always solutions. But now, he's being told that it's alright to not have the answer, that the puzzle itself is enough. That he is enough, even without a formula to explain his actions and himself. He doesn't want to cry in front of Sasha, so he forces himself to swallow back the tears, and say “Thank you.”

She smiles gently, and Jon feels more sure of himself than he has in years.

“Next question is one you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I'd like to ask, just in case. Any changes in pronouns or names I should be aware of?” She crosses her arms, sitting back and giving him space, even though her eyes have a muffled spark of curiosity in them.

Jon fidgets. “Not really. I'm- I’m rather attached to my name. I think I'd like to keep it. And I– well,” he hesitates, a heavy pause overtaking him. He hasn't really thought about this yet.

He doesn't  _ mind _ his pronouns, not really, he rather likes he/him, for the most part. It's all he knows, at least. But… he thinks he might like to try out some others as well. It might be nice, in a similar way he thinks it'd be nice to be referred to as a  _ person _ rather than a man. But… that's something he'd rather sit on for a while longer, he thinks. He isn't sure yet, and as much as the uncertainty scares him, he isn't the type to go clinging to something new just because he feels like he  _ should _ . “Maybe nothing yet? That isn't a no forever, but I'd like to think about it for a bit first?”

He asks it like a question. Like he's worried that if he waits for too long, it won't matter anymore. Sasha shakes her head.

“Of course, there's no rush, Jon. And that isn't something you  _ need _ to change, ever, if you don't want to. It's wonderful if you find something that fits you better, of course, but don't think you need to force yourself into something just to perform what you think is right. You get to go at your own pace for this.”

“Alright,” Jon says quietly, a very weak smile on his face. He hopes Sasha James knows that she is an angel incarnate. “Thank you, Sasha.”

“Anytime,” she smiles, and goes to stand. “Give me that call whenever you feel like shopping around, I'll make time.”

“Of course.”

She turns to leave, and then pauses and turns back around. “Oh, and Jon?”

“Yes?” He hasn’t looked away.

Her expression is deeply serious. “Don’t let anyone try and convince you that you’ve done something wrong.”

Jon’s breath catches at that. He’s intimately familiar with the way the world can worm its way into one’s head and make them think they’re broken just for being real. He knows the shame that edges his heart was planted there by voices that wanted control over things they did not understand, and he knows it isn’t his. It doesn’t make it easy to unlearn, but it’s a start. Having support is more than a start, it’s a milestone. He nods, and when he speaks, he's making a promise. “I won’t.”

“Good.” She smiles again, and this time the pride in her eyes is evident. “And good luck with the blasphemous priest.”

Jon smiles then, with everything he has in his chest, and it holds more gratitude than he can begin to explain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!!! I hope you're having a wonderful day, and that you and your loved ones are staying safe <3
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!
> 
> And again, if you haven't gone to see Sahar's art yet then pls!!!! [pls look it is so good!!!!](https://pocketsizedquasar.tumblr.com/post/643692547481468928/i-read-a-really-cute-fic-called-shopping-for) Thank you again!!!!


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